Ocular Anatomy
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: Promptfic: Holmes' eyes. Just, something to do with Holmes' eyes. HolmesWatson, slight slash.


This one is for lj user="anna_bm". Holmes/Watson Movieverse: Holmes' eyes. Just, something to do with Holmes' eyes.

0o0o

*_anterior chamber_*

There's a madman bent over a chemical table in my house every Thursday.

The madman is Holmes and I don't know why he's suddenly picked Thursday as his weekly day of reckoning for himself and our household but this is the latest habit I don't bother to argue with. I try not to disturb him but can't help hovering nearby, watching his glittering eyes as liquids change color and form, solids turn into ash.

It's like standing on the edge of a precipice, being so close to him when he does this. Like a reckless fool, I can't turn away. He holds my chequebook in his drawer, but I gamble anyway, watching him and wondering if today's the day we disappear in a shower of smoke; a magic act gone horribly wrong.

He looks up at me with wide, wild eyes that take my breath away. "One more addition and the compound is complete."

I wait and watch and curse myself for the thrill that burns itself into every bone.

0o0o

*_ciliary body_*

His eyes are watery and grim as I try to give him another dose of medicine, this one to relieve some of the phlegm that's lodged in his lungs. He purses his lips like a child so I grab his nose and hold until his mouth opens out of necessity.

In goes the medicine. The glare I receive in return is so indignant, so utterly outraged beyond all measure it's all I can do to keep from laughing aloud.

"Abuse. Malpractice ... torture," he rasps at me. "Are you proud of yourself, Doctor Maleficent?"

"My, my. You're getting better," I say cheerfully, enjoying how his dark eyes simmer with anger. "You wouldn't have the energy to look at me that way if it were otherwise."

"I'm merely animated in an attempt to survive your treatments." The medicine is part opiate which makes his voice soften and slow. Eventually, his eyes drift shut and I heave a sigh of relief.

Perhaps tonight I won't have to sit up until dawn, desperately listening for each and every stuttering breath he takes.

0o0o

*_cornea_*

On the surface, Holmes looks like he has no cares in the world outside of his cases. It's a very hard surface, carefully polished by years of acerbic commentary on the uselessness of love and emotional entanglements. I have to admit I fell for it at first because I'm a man who dealt exclusively in surfaces, never probing too far beneath any given exterior.

Unfortunately for Holmes, he's taught me the value of observation, to not only see but understand and so his facade was torn away. It only took a moment, when one of our adversaries took a shot at me that nicked its mark and I fell to the floor, mostly from surprise more than anything else.

The cool mask fell away and his normally sharp eyes took on the most terrible shade of desperation I'd ever seen, the look of a man who'd seen his own life flash before him and not the potential loss of a friend.

I was so surprised I lost my voice, making me look much worse off than I actually was. "Tell me you're not hurt. Please, for the love of God, tell me you're not hurt," he said, sounding like a man begging his way out of an execution.

"I'm fine. It's just a scratch," I replied, filled with wonder and a somewhat shameful happiness that Holmes would never be able to convince me of his unfeeling nature again.

He blinked and exhaled shakily and no more was said, but I'd seen enough. He immediately attempted to pull the mask back up but it was now permanently broken and in truth, I wasn't sorry to see it go.

From the look in his eyes later that night, when we laughed over the incident by the fire, I thought he might have felt the same.

0o0o

*_iris_*

"The first rule of observation is employing our memory, Watson. Now, without looking, tell me what color my eyes are."

With a sigh, I flip a page of my paper. "Brown."

"That's it? Just _brown_?" Holmes sounds bitterly disappointed. "You have no other descriptors for them?"

It's hard to hide my smile. "They are like a shiny saddle, recently soaped. A mound of dirt, mined from the meadow. Like a cobblestone in the rain, dark and wet. And ..."

"That's enough," he interjects petulantly. "Keep your day job, Doctor. You and poetry are natural enemies."

"They are my most favorite thing to observe in this world or any other," I finish. I put down my paper and lean in to brush my lips over his. "But they're still brown."

0o0o

end

Thank you for reading. If you've enjoyed this, let me know.


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